Mortvi Non Mordant
by Unmentionable Squick
Summary: A sacrifice brings Ed into possession of a flawed Philosopher's Stone, and the decision to use it ends in an unforeseen price. Future RoyEd, despite all evidence to the contrary.
1. The Little Things

**A/N**: Many thanks to my Sapphyness (who beta'd) and la' Chev (who will beta). The title may be subject to change, but the current one comes from this (h t t p : w w w . y u n I . c o m / l I b r a r y / l a t i n 4 . h t m l) site, which translated _mortvi__ non mordant_ as: Dead men don't bite. coughs lightly So. Yes. Wrote this one the plane back from D.C., because FMA is tehultimate, and I am now obsessed. The plot bunnies are also refusing all requests to get Kam's fic done. NYARG. -- Actually say down and plotted this one out from beginning to end, so I will follow through with it. As it's mostly for my own Roy/Ed-y enjoyment, I plan on taking my own sweet time. If any wish to quicken my lackadaisical pace, they may feel free to bug me.

**Disclaimer**: FMA does not belong to me. If it did, it would be Roy's hand in the opening scene. Instead of Winry's. Yes. Sapphy, you know what I'm taking about.

**Warnings**: Slash, slash, and more slash. Roy/Ed-ness and so forth. Though not in this chapter unfortunately. If you don't like it, run away now and spare yourself the horror that will be. That said, onward!

**Mortvi**** Non Mordant**

By LCM

The stone was a dull red-brown when he pulled it from his pocket, flaking muddy crimson across white gloves as it passed between his fingers. The thing smoldered dismally through its dried blood coating, the off-ruby hue of bright light seen through closed eyelids. Ed tossed it back and forth between his hands once more, then dropped it with a soft _splunk_ into the waiting bathtub and watched as pink streamers bled from the rock, weaving in curls of color that spun darkly at their base, outwardly diluting. He waited, but it seemed that time was taking its own sweet pace and in the end Ed would be the first to admit he had never had any large endowment of patience. Stripping his gloves he retrieved it, flesh and automail giving a final scrub to rid the stone a last layer of crusted blood. Glowing bright in his palms it was a pretty thing, and better, he could feel its perfection: a beacon of _fullness_ and power that reached in and sent hot shivers down his spine. For an instant, his mind teased at forbidden nothings –remembering the _cost_ – but if anything, he was good at pushing away memories he'd rather not dwell on, and away from those Edward could savor the moment.

He did, in fact. Clutched it, preened, and almost did a little dance, tongue-tied as he was, just _thinking_ about what to tell Al. For one glorious, unbridled instant he even allowed himself to entertain a fantasy in which he pranced (triumphantly) down to the Colonel's office, and after (smugly) slamming the stone before the man's (fat) head, turned the arrogant sot into an (arrogant) chicken. Who was too-short-to-be-seen-without-a-telescope now? Ah, gloat, gloat, gloat. But Ed thought he deserved it. There are even some who'd agree that he did.

So it was that he was sitting on one of those ridiculously low stools – the kind that squats just an inch or so off the ground; never quite wide enough and always too long to be comfortable – when it happened, spinning the thing with a lazy sort of satisfaction. Noticed a Flaw, and it was the feel of it that alerted him more then anything else his mind could try and persuade itself it saw: a pocket of _cool_ in an impossible heat. Bubble of nothing so small that it wasn't so much perceptible as something else entirely. It made Ed go cold and then hot all at once, knotting his soul as his stomach dropped out and razor-winged butterflies shredded his hope into ribbons.

Amazing that a twinge – all but feather light – could inspire a sensation so similar to being hit over the head with a truckload of bricks. Or several wrenches, for that matter, and there he could speak from experience.

Ed would never be entirely sure where his brain went during those next several hours. Weeks later he would speculate – privately – that it never returned at all. When some sense of awareness awoke, however, the bathwater was lukewarm – a fake cherry color – and his rousing could be credited to one of the inn's maids who was poking her head in as a reminder that – unless he wished to pay for another night – it was time he be going, and that she really _did_ need to clean. Still, it not so much her irritated glances as it was the hands on the clock (informing him he was _beyond_ late for his meet-up with Al) that got him going. Draining the tub (and with a parting scowl for the maid) he left – a dust cloud through the lobby's front door – in a half-sprint towards the military's dorms.

He supposed it was only the unluckiest twist of fate that caused him to run into the Colonel. Fortune had always hated him and, after this turn (however mild) in his luck, she was showing her disfavor with a vengeance.

Ed would admit –rather grudgingly – that perhaps his mind hadn't been all too focused on where he was going, but it wasn't as if Mustang couldn't have stepped out of the way. Ed pictured the chicken, and gritted out an apology through a clenched smile that almost hurt for its tightness. The Colonel nodded, as if taking his due, and Ed almost burst. In the end, however, he didn't and (with notable effort) turned to walk away.

"Fullmetal–" There was a smooth smirk in that voice, and Ed's eyebrows jumped in annoyance to hear it. "You should know that your brother is looking for you; he seemed rather worried so I told him I'd have my staff keep an eye out." Then, as almost an afterthought, "I had doubted anyone would see you."

Halfway down the hall, Ed stopped, twitching. From anyone else, that little statement _might_ have been meant as it sounded. But in Roy-talk "_doubted anyone would see you_" was a simple translation away from, "_knew they wouldn't notice you because you're a midget and couldn't be spotted without the aid of twenty different magnifying glasses_." Red flashed across his vision, and the hand in his pocket white-knuckled into a fist around his Philosopher's stone.

The stone. Ed's rage bled out and down into it – solidifying into purpose – and turning, he gave a little cat smile.

"I guess even _you_ can't be right all the time, Colonel."

And whistling, he pranced (triumphantly) away, braid swinging, still grinning and not noticing the odd look Roy sent after him.

…oOo.,,

"Worried", it turned out, was an understatement.

Al was frantic when he opened the door, and Ed nearly died in the crushing steel hug that followed.

"Niisan!" The boyish tenor was almost lost in the clanking of metal and Ed's wheezing gasps for such things as 'help', 'stop', and 'air'. Apologetic, Al eased his embrace from 'death grip' to merely 'uncomfortable'.

"Niisan," He repeated, once Ed's face had lost its blue-purple tinge. "Where have you been? You've been gone for _weeks_, and you said you'd only be away for a day or two, and then I get your message last night that you'll meet me at 12:00 and it's almost a quarter past one and–"

…Ed was listening, really he was. He was even beginning to feel a little bad about his poorly managed contact, despite the apparent gains parked heavily in his pocket. But when his eyes – trailing repentantly around the room – found it, he couldn't help himself. Truly _couldn't_, and shivered as this first alien stirring of unchecked anger and nothings – small as it was – swelled within him; a first glimpse at the _size_ of the pit in which he'd dug himself. Sometimes the extent of a sacrifice is never realized until it has been made it.

"What is _that_?!" He managed a poke in the item's general direction as he watched his brothers face go from ranting anxiety, to surprise, to an embarrassed would-be-flush.

"Oh. Um." Al's voice was rather small, and the cat – upon receiving such attention – looked up and yawned lazily.

Ed gave it a glare, and _waited_.

"Well…" Al stammered, and while some might have found the sight of the dark armor stammering before the rage of someone just barely clearing the five feet marker amusing, Ed most certainly did **_not_**. Not with that _thing_ on _his_ bed. "Well…you see Niisan…you…were away…." Ed's eye twitched and the younger of the two brothers shook his head vigorously in denial of the words, "No! No, that's not what I meant…it's not that _you_ were away…it's just that you _were_ and I got kind of lonely…and the poor kitty was so hungry and alone too and…. Can we keep him, Niisan?"

Ed growled, and it sounded suspiciously like "no" to Al's listening ears. Stalking up to the bed, Ed made a grab for the cat, which in turn jumped down and under the mattress. Ed's attempt to retrieve it from that particular spot resulted in tattered shirtsleeves and three long scratches down his un-automailed arm. In the small tornado of cursing and yowls that followed, Al found himself the long suffering neutral party; stepping in only to prevent Ed from finally chucking the hissing feline out the window, and instead placed it gingerly outside their front door.

"Ed." He said, attempting to draw his brother's attention, still fixed as it was on the door and the small animal behind it. "Niisan. Edward." Ed finally looked up, shaking his head as he did, shoulders still heaving. At the time, Al reflected on the moment as strange and not entirely Ed-like in behavior, but what happened next drove all such thoughts from his head. "Just tell me, where have you been?" And that seemed to pull the older Elric brother together, for Ed reached in his pocket and slammed a small gleaming stone on to the table beside him, face transforming from anger to something of a mad grin.

"Oh, nowhere much. Seeing new places, trying new stuff. Getting you an early birthday gift among other things." Folding his arms, Ed smiled into the silence, "What do you think? It's a little heavy on the reds, and the whole glow bit's a tad gaudy, but I've heard that this chip of rock can work wonders…"

And Al didn't say anything.

Really, there wasn't anything to be said.

…oOo…

Edward hadn't told Al about finding the Flaw and he didn't plan to. It was beyond tiny anyway, and only random chance that Ed had come across it in the first place. Fixable, livable, and not even a spec when compared to the stone's collective power. Asking Al to look it over had ended with nothing, and examining it a second time himself had produced similar results. No sign of any defect, all but bursting with impossible energy, Ed was beginning to think that he'd simply imagined the blemish in a fit of paranoia. After all, why _shouldn't_ something good happen to them? It was about time, certainly. It was _about_ time.

Ed's hand on the chalk was steady, but something small inside and right below his breastbone was shaking and he wasn't sure if it was with anticipation or anger or at the sheer stupidity of trying this _again_. Of those foolish enough to have attempted human transmutation very few survived the ordeal, and never had he heard of anyone with the mindless _idiocy_ to give it a second attempt. _Third_. He pushed the thought away. This time would be different, he reminded himself. They had the Philosopher's Stone and even if it wasn't entirely immaculate, it was only by the smallest of margins. They should be able to do it. They _would_ do it. And on the off chance that something did go wrong…well…. Ed's mouth twisted in something that was just a little bit grim and incredibly fierce. He'd just have to make sure that Al wasn't the one footing the bill this time.

The last delicate tracery of white arched and finished with a flourish as Ed completed the Array. It was as perfect as he could make it, more then perfect, mapped out with a complexity hundreds of times that of the first endeavor and made with an effort second only to the one which had created the stone.

Technically, they didn't even need it – a Philosopher's Stone should have been able to manage the job just fine on its own – but neither Elric brother felt, understandably, up to taking chances. Well, aside from the risks they took merely attempting human transmutation. For a long second Ed just stared down at it, watching the last fading rays of daylight creep through house's high basement window. It was done. The wait was over.

He moved and pinned a cloth over the darkening glass

.

They would do it tonight.

…oOo…

The brothers had chosen the root cellar of a house real estate agent's had been trying to sell for the past several years without too much success. The place itself was fairly large (cobwebbed to extremes) and had the great misfortune of being a lovely piece of architecture in the worst of all possible neighborhoods. Of those with the kind of money to buy such a place, none were eager to obtain land in the particular area, and those desperate enough to hazard the quarter had not the financial means to do the purchasing. The estate itself had all but been declared an unofficial National Treasure (having been a crucial player in several minor civil wars) and thus couldn't even be destroyed to make room for more shanties. The brothers had found the structure on a mission several years back, and filing it away for future reference had proved an intelligent decision.

Setting up for the event was far more difficult, and Ed would deem the next several days some of the longest of his life: dodging Hughes, Havoc, Hawkeye, (how may people with last names beginning with 'H' did he _know_?) Armstrong and a myriad of others he normally counted friends, coming up with lies on top of lies, and the _waiting_ alone enough to send him spiraling into insanity. It didn't help that he was fairly sure Gracia didn't quite buy the story on needing a bit of 'off' time, thought Hawkeye was getting suspicious, and was all but positive that the Colonel knew _something_. Ed figured the sooner they did the transmutation the better. This was his and Al's problem, and they would fix it. If the Roy and his staff could find a heart for them afterwards, Ed would be the last to deny them. But… he needed to do this last thing _alone_. He had lived the last several years of his life in _pursuit_ of the moment, and didn't quite think himself capable of sharing it. It was too…personal. Important. They'd both given up too much.

"Al," he called, "It's ready."

And so it began.

…oOo…

They started at midnight for no other reason then that it was _midnight_ and if such things should be done they should be done at such times. Al was nervous and it showed in the duck of his head, but then again, so was Ed. He had nearly bitten Hughes's head off that morning, and then spent the next two hours wrapped up in a distracted, self-berating daze that left even _Hawkeye_ asking after his health. Well, not really, but she had given what – on her – could have passed as a concerned look. In hindsight, he supposed mumbling obscenities under his breath couldn't have invoked too much faith towards his mental stability, but it wasn't like he could help it. The butterflies were back, and the empty pocket in his chest had been strung with barbed wire.

Now, however – with the stone shooting off warmth into the cool steel of his automail fingers – the feeling was beginning to ease and he felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he regarded his brother. What would Al look like, he wondered? Would his body be that of a child or older; remembered features transformed with the years despite a none-too corporal state.

Excitement replaced apprehension, and the brothers gave each other a parting nod _I'll see you on the other side_before slamming both hands palm down onto the array and exploding everything in white-yellow light.

It was almost painful at first, and Ed had forgotten the intensity of it. Or perhaps it had never been this intense and that was the Philosophers Stone, spilling out power and color until it bled the lines a dark golden red; energy, channeled and inconceivable for its sheer _strength_ raging in fiery torrents. Across from him, Al was coated in raw _brilliance_ to the point that it hurt Ed to look at him, and glancing down he saw his automail arm and leg suffused in the same. There was a giddy feel to the process – light headed, almost like drowning – and his first coherent thought was: _it's__ working_. Everything was copper crimson and _right_ and his world had been reduced to the round hardness of the stone in his fingers and –_ohmyfuckinggod__ –_ he could feel hisleftknee and it was _itching_.

Somewhere along that particular train of thought it occurred to him to look up at Al… and had he just seen _eyes_ in the dark metal sockets? Shadowed skin and sandy-brown hair? _Ohmyf__-_

Then the light went purple, and everything stopped.

But didn't, really. It was more like a vacuum that, having been turned to reverse, had been adjusted back to its' original setting. A black hole of greedy _sacrifice_, and Ed swore if he ever got out of the circle he would hunt down every last dictionary in existence and personally vivisect each page with the word, never mind it was paper. The rock in his palm was cold and dead, the source of it all, and even as he cursed himself – felt the void calling him in – Ed saw gold spark, reborn, around Al.

It was with a sense of relief that he realized everything hadn't gone entirely wrong. The stone was simply not as finished as he had thought it might be. Had been given, but not given enough, and would work if just settled with more – oh he would kill it: _rageslayDIE_– **sacrifice**. He took a breath, and the decision was made before he could finish the inhale.

…oOo…

Slipping off into blackness was easier then he could have imagined, with none of the pain or terror he'd expected. Light trickled down to a star's pinpoint in a far away _offness_, and – catching words almost inaudible for their distance – he wondered why his mind was taking this last opportunity to inform him that he was …a short little fool. For an instant, the darkness receded and the voice in his head redoubled its' efforts. A short, short, short, little, tiny, microscopic, _stubborn, _**stupid**, dust spec of a fool. The small part of himself that wasn't bent on all consuming altruism took a moment to wonder what in the world was going on. That hesitation was all the voice needed, for suddenly there was a hand in his own and a body at his back and the red-gold was everywhere, swamping him in warmth and a touch of self-satisfied conquest. Opening his eyes, he could swear he saw Roy Mustang smirking down at him, and it was with a feeling of dream-like aloofness that he imagined could see through the other man's _head_. Confusion, then surreal panic, rose in his throat as an unconnected portion of his brain cackled madly and informed him that _oh_ but he was in no end of trouble. And it made perfect sense for the second or two before the rest of him – genius that it was – caught up (watching the ceiling through the Colonel's head getting clearer and clearer) and realized with an incredulous horror just what was going on.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Admittedly, the glare that accompanied the words couldn't have been all too terrifying, and his voice –hoarse and soft through the rush of alchemy – wouldn't have scared off a pigeon, but Roy didn't have to _laugh_.

Lord of lords, Ed could see that ancient, ugly, moth-eaten tapestry of a unicorn through the back of Mustang's neck – had a hand _through_ his shoulder – and the man was _laughing_. Hysteria bloomed and rushed through his blood and down to _two sets of toes_ while Roy sat there and faded away with the answers.

"Don't _leave, _youbastard_. _How dare you…I said don't leave–"

Ed reached out and found emptiness, all the while cursing his remarkable lack of anything resembling eloquence. And damn it all, he was prepared to sacrifice his arm _again_ but he was never going to let the Colonel hear the end of it.

Clapping his hands Ed preformed his search: felt a touch and then...nothing. He blinked, tried a second time, and…failed once more. Panic finally boiled over and burst past his lips, laughter loud and fierce at the absurdity, waiting for a punch line. For someone to come out and tell him this was all a very bad joke, because there was _no_ way Colonel Roy Mustang was _gone_. He was too willful, too arrogant, too _smug_ to do anything so boring as go and _die_. Not when he hadn't even made an attempt at Fuhrer, hadn't performed his inevitable coup. It wasn't….Roy-ish. Not sneaky or shifty or scheming at all.

So he tried again. Again. Againagainagainagainagainagainagain. And zero times itself a million times over never increases its value.

The light was beginning to die, and with it, his laughter. There was emptiness, space, and silence and then a small noise issued from across the room, and Ed looked up to find Al. Oh god _Al_.

His stomach did ailing flip-flops, but some were for joy, and he was alive, and Al was alive, and if he tried he could push away whatever it was in the back of his mind that was sick beyond sobbing.

…oOo…

**More A/N**: …despite all appearances, it _will_ be Roy/Ed. Comments and criticism are always appreciated: and if reviews don't make the world go round, then they help keep it happy.


	2. Tangled Webs

**A/N:** This chapter would not be possible without beta-ing from Sapphy and la' Chev. Bow before their mighty powerz of DOOM. Almost done with my WoLaS fics. YESSUH! Also, be warned. I have seen a total of 10 some episodes, the last one being 19. A/U-ness will undoubtedly occur.

**Disclaimer**: FMA does not belong to me. If it did…cackles

**Warnings**: Slash, slash, and more slash. Roy/Ed-ness and so forth. Though not in this chapter unfortunately. If you don't like it, run away now and spare yourself the horror that will be. That said, onward!

**A Dedication: **This chapter is dedicated to the lovely ShukiAi, who did such things as send me wonderful manga – the darling! – , and PlatonicTeddys, whose review made me sparkle and light up, then swamped me with a desire to write. Thank you both, you are most loverly.

**Mortvi**** Non Mordant**

_By LCM _

Ed woke to the feel of earthy moisture seeping up through concrete and blankets, settling to pull achingly down his curled form. It was an uncomfortable, damp sensation, and while ignorable in the scheme of things, sparked a soft tingling along restored limbs that was enough to send early morning muzzy-ness scuttling (with a sluggish resentment) from his mind. Something throbbed beneath his temples, and the part of him that was still snarking over its loss of sleep reflected that an extra arm and leg did little for hangovers.

He didn't, however, regret the champagne or the box of more-than-a-tad-squashed donuts. Last night's alchemy had left Edward bone-raw and shaking, Al's state so much worse as to have been all but inconceivable. Tired beyond all else – yet unable to drift into slumber for the sheer explosion of feeling – both brothers had welcomed the cheap shot of alcohol and sugar; a chance to ramble on over nothings, letting the rush of chemicals and babble burn off a good bit of the more immediate shock. Pulling himself up into a sitting position, Ed's mind flittered lightly over the events of the early morning post-transmutation whatever-it-was.

Al didn't know about Roy, – of that, the older Elric brother was certain – wasn't even aware that anything had gone wrong. Ed had asked him, somewhere near the bottom of the last bottle – there had only been two, but Ed had never had much tolerance (those with a death wish would blame it on his height) – but when Alphonse had responded with a long, puzzled look, he'd dropped the subject. Making sure his brother didn't suffer for this latest escapade included keeping him from the guilt he would feel over Mustang's apparent clandestine passion for heroics. Of all the dirty secrets…! Next, no doubt, he would learn that the Colonel had paraded about the city in long underwear; helping cats out of trees, old ladies cross the street, and hunting down evil-doers in the name of truth, justice, and mini-skirts for most (but not all, thank god) women. _…Head larger than several melons, more ego than Armstrong has muscle, able to bed half the female population in a single bound, it's…Super Roy!_ Cue theme song. Ed wasn't sure if the image made him want to laugh or cry.

It was with an effort that he pulled his mind from that particular road, giving the angry murmurs of protest a vague promise of 'later'. There were other things to think about. _Better_ things to think about. Like…like.... Like his hand for example. Ed chewed at his lip, knees pulled up to his chest, the warmth of flesh over flesh odd and intense for the fact that he had not felt it in years. His hand, Al's one disappointment. It clung to his right arm – from the wrist down – like a dead thing, and he waggled the cold metal fingers just to show that they worked. It had been what had first really anchored Alphonse into the world again, seeing the automail still part of his brother, and Ed could be grateful for that. He was not entirely sure he wasn't simply grateful for the hand in and of itself. The mechanism was familiar, almost comfortable in a way, and – he grinned – would continue to pack a surprisingly hard punch, despite his wide-spread reputation. Literally, the iron fist in the proverbial velvet glove… well, it was more like cotton, but still. Take that. The silence stretched on indefinitely, questioning just who it was that was meant to _take_.

/I said **_later_**./

A groan issued from across the root cellar – much sought for respite – and Ed looked up to find Al, all long teenage limbs and too-small cat-printed pajamas, blinking up at him groggily from under a veritable mountain of blankets.

"Niisan," he managed to croak, fixing Ed with a pained stare, "I'm dying." 'And it's all you fault,' his eyes seemed to say, though Al was too well mannered to ever voice such a thought.

Maybe the champagne had been a bad idea after all.

oOo.

The next few hours were far more difficult than waking up had ever been. The motion of merely breathing was uncomfortable enough for one who hadn't been doing it for a while, and Al's long lack of anything resembling hurt made the discomfort of a hangover beyond excruciating. His pain, at least, kept them both focused and able to work on the physical aspect of healing without mixing it in with the psychological. By noon they were both tired again – the better part of two liquor-induced headaches just beginning to lift – and it was with an excited start that Al look up from his nest of blankets and said with an awed sort of wonder,

"…I'm hungry."

His eyes widened, pondering the words, then – almost sparkling – he whooped out a repeat, "Niisan, I'm hungry!" Ed jumped up and Al followed suite – legs wobbling beneath him but not caring – and they were both practically skipping as they dug out Ed's bag, unpacking breakfast.

Nine muffins, five hard-boiled eggs, six pieces of toast, three oranges, one apple, four bowls of cereal, two leftover donuts, eight ninths of a pig (in bacon/sausage/sliced ham form), half a gallon of juice, three sandwiches and a chocolate mint: perhaps not the exact measurement of ingredients it took to fill up an average boy's body when said boy has been absent for several years, but at least enough to tide him through until lunch time. Not to say that Ed wasn't inhaling his food at record speed, but Al was….Well, there were really no words for it. Incredible, perhaps.

"Ish good!" the younger brother managed to pipe out around the last of the provisions that was to have been their dinner. Ed, so far behind, didn't even bother trying to answer.

.oOo.

Ed spent the rest of the morning and into the afternoon attempting to help Al get a feel for the new body. Neither of them were up to any long term thinking, so difficult rhythms of different combat drills were an ideal choice, shoring up their sense of selves to the point were they even attempted a little sparing. It was short-lived, as the cellar – while pleasantly cool – wasn't made for such things, and just a few seconds into the fight Al's stomach began rumbling.

"What've you got down there, a pit?" Edward questioned, eyebrows raised incredulously at his brother's middle, a smile tugging at his lips despite the words. Al, in turn, blushed – stuttering out an apology, while favoring the noisy organ with a disapproving scowl and a castigating prod. Laughing, Ed rescued his brother's abdomen from any further any further scrutiny, and smiled.

"Just a long as it doesn't start mewing, we'll be fine. Come on, let's scrounge some lunch."

.oOo.

As it turned out, there was nothing. Well, almost nothing. Just a single, mushy, half-eaten apple (already a dark brown-yellow color) that didn't, despite hunger pangs, interest either of them. Which became important, when – mere moments later – Ed subscribed to the bottomless-hole theory as well.

"I vaguely recall hearing someone tell us not to eat dirt." Edward proclaimed, one long metal finger jabbing at the crumbling clay walls of the basement. "But I can't seem to remember…was there a reason, or was it only on principle?"

Al – who rediscovering all over again that being hungry made him irritated – sighed. Sometimes, he wished his niisan had just a bit more common sense.

"Why don't you go down to the market and just get some more food?"

" –and I can swear I remember having heard a story where a bunch of military guys got together and had pebble stew. Or was it rock soup? Just like the military to– what did you say, Al?"

Breathe deep, slowly now, "Why don't you just go down to the market, and buy us more food?"

"Oh. Yeah. But what about you?"

"I'll be fine, niisan."

"…You're sure?"

Al grinned, the ripple of flesh across his cheekbones peculiar, but in a pleasant sense. "Yes, niisan."

The older Elric shot the younger a dubious look, but donned his red coat and grabbed his pack nonetheless.

"And niisan! Pick me up some new clothes, please… these are a little tight –"

Ed huffed. But mostly to himself, and in a pleased sort of fashion. Al, after all, was one of the few people he could trust not to throw an insinuation, and really couldn't help the fact that he…towered…so.

Still. Tall people.

Those pajamas fit _him_ just fine.

.oOo.

The walk to the market was a long one, as walks to markets go, and Ed found that telling oneself not to think something is a lot easier then actually making one's mind follow through with the order. However, he did manage to make it to the first of the shops in under forty-five minutes, stopping only – once, mind you! – to bang his head against a wall. And even that didn't turn out so bad: the lady selling eggs gave him a strange look, hastily handed over a basket and – when he made an attempt at bartering – gifted him with a hefty discount. Yes, life was good.

Having picked up enough foodstuffs to stock his own private grocery store, Ed fished about the bags and pulled out a honey roll – still hot – to munch on the way back to the house. Around the fifth pastry, his stomach stopped its protest and he chewed lazily; eyes half lidded, enjoying the warmth of the sugary bun as it settled in his mouth. The streets were getting darker and more decrepit as he ventured farther into the poor district, but it didn't bother him: Edward was quite adept at defending himself and sweets made for one happy Elric. Content, and going on full, it seemed as good a time as any.

So. Roy. The images were fuzzy when allowed to surface: there was purple, darkness, being called short, seeing through Mustang's head, and…really, nothing else. Which didn't make any sense whatsoever. In the utmost seriousness, and to be perfectly, completely, terribly fair, he knew that the Colonel liked both him and his brother, in his own, manipulative, crazy-ass-bastard way. Ed would even confess to having an inkling of fondness for the man himself; at the very least it was something resembling trust. But that was besides the point. The point was that Roy – in all brutal truth – had some damn excellent reasons for living, and even better ones for becoming Fuhrer. Ed didn't know all of them, and some of what he 'knew' was just guess work, but the few he was sure of, miniskirts aside, were good. Very good. Had far more significance even – and here his chest tightened unpleasantly – than one alchemist's life, no matter how fond Mustang was of said person. Ed knew this, and – by simple default and the laws of the universe – knew the Colonel knew it too; was left, once again, to wonder what in the world Roy had thought he was doing. Which, of course, led to the question of how Mustang had found out about their illegal endeavor in the first place, how he had discovered the 'where' and 'when', and what he had done to break into the Array as he did, coming back at the why all over again.

Later, Ed would blame his failure to notice his pursuers on the questions playing ring-around-the-rosy in his head. Almost – absorbed as he was in his thoughts – there wasn't a later, despite the fact that the footsteps were less-than-subtle, and had the air of people who knew what to do but weren't particularly proficient at doing it. In the end, however, he did notice and when two silhouettes appeared at the alley's head – he would bet anything that there were at least more three to his back – he wasn't intolerably surprised. The shopping bags had made their way up onto his shoulder, and both hands were free as he scanned the figures before him: both were relatively tall, and both wore the patched, nondescript clothing common to the neighborhood. One was middle-aged, a balding gray, while the other was in his late twenties, with muddy green eyes and a tangle of mousy brown hair. They could easily be taken for the breed of thug not uncommon to the area, or a gang, out on its prowl. The younger of the two slipped out a sheet of paper, pressed it to the ground, and before Edward could finish the incredulous thought of isthatanarrayohshititis it had hit him – a sharp, shooting pain in his upper right shoulder that left him almost longing for his automail. Ed knew that it was always a bad idea to look, but it's hard not to notice when a three foot pole is sticking from your shoulder. The honey rolls suddenly turned to lead in his belly.

The attacks came hard and fast, with a nebulous feeling of unreality.

He fought, of course, but there is little that can be said of the proceedings, save that a flesh-and-blood arm puts a very different spin on a fight than one made of metal. There were a total of seven assailants, not the five he predicted, and four of them were alchemists. Of the remaining three, two had knives, and the last wielded a gun. Ed would be the first to admit he was good in a pinch but….

Three were down and all seven had sustained some form of minor injury by the time the time enemies one and six managed to get a hold on him, number five moving in to grab the pole still stuck through his collar bone, and pulling it out with a nauseating pop that sent him spinning into dizzy circles.

"Feisty little kid, isn't he?" Two spoke for the first time, and Ed would have kicked him, would have said something if he hadn't just recognized the man's voice. He rarely attended the annual ball held by the State for its alchemists, but he had attended just the year before, and been introduced to this man. It was a fleeting encounter, yet the particular tenor of the voice had stuck with Ed because it bore an eerie similarity to Winry's. He remembered having almost spewed punch across the room at the thought. Martin. The man's name was Martin… something. And this was bad. Unless these seven were a lone group of bad-apples… it meant that they'd been sent by the military. Which was a scary, scary thought indeed. Moreso even – if less immediate – then the pistol currently being leveled at his head.

Gold eyes widened as the finger around the trigger began to squeeze, then something surged and Ed snapped. Not in the crazy kind of way, but instead the finger-motion. He wasn't sure why or how but suddenly there was fire and screams and three parts of Edward all at once; the first himself, the second, the sacrifice, a pit that smiled at the shrieks in a way that made the first and true Ed sick, and the third – different, swiftly gone like a wisp of smoke, and not Ed at all. The inferno was dying as he drew himself back together, flames cauterizing his wounds and blackening the alley; when they finally burned themselves out, there was little left but charred stone and ashes.

.oOo.

Many miracles were attributed to the Fullmetal alchemist in his day, and many more after, but Ed considered one of his greatest feats to be the act of willpower which brought him to the house again. He was limping, shaky, exhausted, and in all logistics, it was one of the worst places he could go – if the military truly wanted him dead – but it was the only spot he could think (or reach for that matter) in his current state, and he made it. He was dripping salty trails of blood and sweat by the time he opened the door, and it was a tribute to the dismay he felt that he managed to feel anything at all at the sight: blue-coated figures, guns raised, in the hall, Al chained towards the back, and a General – what was his name…Havenstock? – looming up before all.

The rest of the encounter read as a nightmare.

"Edward Elric, you are under arrest for illegal alchemistic proceedings and the murder of military official Colonel Roy Mustang. You have the right to remain silent, anything you do or say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…"

Ed couldn't help it, and perhaps that made it easier: he fainted.

.oOo.

A/N: And for my next chapter: See Ed. See Ed angst. ANGST, Ed, ANGST. cackles ;; And thank you to all those who reviewed. You make me happy. Future reviews will keep me that way. ;P Love!

On a further note, to clear things up:

firedraygon97 and Omakase Shimasu: Sorry for the confusion! And to clear that up: Ed is being sucked into death and whatnot when Roy shows up, but Roy manages to pull him back into his body. The trippyness that Ed sees is Roy fading away into whatever place Ed was going before Roy saved him. O.o Um. I hope that makes sense. Further questions can be e-mailed to H e r m i o n e 8 8 1 4 0 6 5 4 c s . c o m, kill the spaces, of course.

**A note for this chapter:** I have noticed that the most common remark made for this chapter is: _OMG. __Roy__ is dead. __Roy__ is dead. OMG. _And then pitchforks are fetched. O.o …On that note, I would like once more to assure you: yes, it may look that our dear boyo is dead, BUT. This is a Roy/Ed fic! Even I, horrible, depraved person that I am, could not kill him and keep a plot going. It is very hard to write relationships when one of the parties is dead. Also, let me assure you again, there is no necrophilia involved. . Plot twists there be, yes, but people can look forward to seeing hints of Roy in the next chapter, so fear not. He is a snarky bastard, and he will livith or have my skull upon a platter. And I like it – my head that is – right where it is, thankyouverymuch.

Review, and I give you a heart shaped cookie. With Ed and Roy doodled over it in icing. So there. XD


	3. A Bucket of Angst

**A/N**: I do plan on having updating every week or two, but after chapter three, I think I'm going to take a brief break, as one of my two beta's is going out of town. sends the luff after her In the mean time, chapter three is made possible by the uber beta's which are Sapphy and Chev.

**Disclaimer**: FMA does not belong to me. If it did, male military uniforms would have a whole lot less material.

**Warnings**: Slash, slash, and more slash. Roy/Ed-ness and so forth. Though not in this chapter unfortunately. If you don't like it, run away now and spare yourself the horror that will be. That said, onward!

**A Dedication: **To my lovely beta Chev who be coming down to Seattle to visit me. Oh I love ye, yes I do. cuddle

**Mortvi**** Non Mordant**

_By LCM_

The cell was almost clinical in its sterile whiteness, all pastels and professionalism, easily mistaken for a hospital room if one overlooked the fact that he was tied -in itself a highly unprofessional medical practice- to the bed. That was to be expected, however, and Ed could ignore the situation if he tried; he was under arrest after all. His bandaged shoulder was aching again like some mad priest's idea of penance, and moody as he was, Ed wondered why his captors didn't simply kill him. It wasn't like they hadn't already made one good attempt and certainly, despite all prohibiting laws, waivers, and arrest forms, they didn't _actually_ plan on having a trial. To his credit, Edward hadn't been expecting one; he'd worked with the military too long not to have caught on to some of its less savory habits. No, they would be skipping the legal proceedings, if you please, and were probably just holding out for an inquisition.

_May the prosecution begin, your honor? No, there is no defense, your honor. Yes, why thank you, your honor. Cigar, your honor? …You're most welcome. Mh… I think they're quite excellent too._

…Depressing, really. For a moment, Ed contemplated the wisdom of flipping over on his belly to brood, then remembered the shackles and stopped, fuming, frustrated by his utter inability to figure things out.

There had already been _some_ questioning, of course, but essentially it had just been reminders that Al was being held, that he – Ed – was detained, and that the military wanted answers and wanted them now. Funny, that they seemed far more interested in getting him to talk on the subject of the Philosopher's Stone than of Roy, (thus forever proving the theory that yes, Mustang was _not_ the sun, the world did _not_ revolve around him, and _no_, light did _not_ shine out of his ass) who was the reason he'd been arrested in the first place.

The Philosopher's Stone; and the thought of it sent a streak of searing white lightning down the back of his throat because…. He had no idea where it was. At all. It even made a certain sort of sense if you looked at it from his point of view: there had been more imperative things to think about during the transmutation, better things afterwards. Could he truly be blamed if he had simply, honestly…lost track of it?

Yes.

Yes, apparently he could, and the military was doing a damn fine job.

Not, of course, to imply that they believed him in the first place. Ed sunk his head deeper into the pillow and gold eyes flickered upwards, counting watermarks on the discolored ceiling.

When there's nothing good to think about, don't think anything at all.

.oOo.

It was late on the afternoon of what Ed guessed to be the third day (but could just have easily been the fifth) when the knock came: three raps in succession, quick, hard, and practical. Amusing, almost, that they waited for his bark of 'fuck off' to proceed, stepping into the fluorescent bright chamber to inform him that he had recovered well enough, and that it was time for him to 'fill in the blanks' as it were. Ed nearly died, insides churning and then freezing solid, when the first man slipped out and another replaced him.

Hughes stood in the doorway with a file under his arm and a look on his face that Edward had never seen before: not scary, no, – a Hughes just back from vacation and loaded down with brand new family photos was scary – but…closed. Yes, closed and very cold. Then he opened his mouth and the image shattered.

"Edw- Fullmetal," He said, his voice a strained, anxious tenor that was low and desperately tired. He sounded like a man caught between two impossible choices and right on the verge of falling to pieces. Ed, just across from him, felt a thickness – strong and bitter – settle in his mouth, as in his chest something broke a little. They sat in silence for a while, and then the Lieutenant Colonel sighed, a weary, heavy noise, pushing his glasses up his nose and hanging a false smile just beneath it. His hands trembled faintly as they pulled up a chair and opened the manila folder, but his words – when they came – were steadier for it.

"Alicia's been asking after you." There was a hesitancy to his manner that almost flooded over the pride, but a wallet was opened, pictures ogled liberally, and it was gone in a gush of adoration and heart-shaped-sparkles. "Mmmh my baby girl is so smart. She's even transmuting things now! Why just the other day –"

The launching of that familiar routine struck Ed harder then any accusation or distrust – a final fluttering straw that broke him – swamping the Elric brother with the reality he'd been playing hide-and-seek from for the past several days. _The Stone's Sacrifice, the blunder of the transmutation, his new arm and leg, the attack, the arrest, the confinement, the fact that Al had just gotten his body and was now who knows where subjected to who knows what, whatever everyone else must be suffering too, and_…_Roy_. _Goddamn_ Mustang…and no, not really, not at _all_, but he was entirely, hopelessly, dead and it _hurt_.

Hughes probably realized he was crying before Ed himself did – fists clenched up and tight – instinctively choking back sobs, and not even noticing when the Lieutenant Colonel's words slowed to a halt, tripping over themselves to hush awkwardly. In that instant, Maes would have given anything to be sure that Edward hadn't murdered his best friend, reach out a hand, tell the young alchemist it would be alright and that the Colonel was working on bailing him out as they talked. As it was, the tears were over before Hughes could make up his mind what to do with them. In the end, he spoke only softly,

"…She wants to be an Alchemist like you, you know."

_And __Roy_. The last hung unsaid, assumed and almost tangible in the air. Ed – attempting to wipe the wet tracks off his cheeks and into his pillow – looked up again, face dry and eyes flashing despite their puffy red color.

"I didn't kill him."

"Havoc will be infinity pleased to discover; the Colonel owes him money, if I remember correctly." Hughes wasn't quite sure he'd meant to snap, and he sighed again. Rallying forces he didn't know he had, he slipped down a professional mask – never minding it had holes big enough to serve as byways for elephants, never minding it didn't hide one thing from Ed – and started the investigation. "I need you to inform me, Edward, everything you can about the events of three days past…"

So Hughes asked and Ed answered and the hours slipped away until neither noticed their passing.

.oOo.

They finished long after both parties had gone semi-hoarse and when the notepad Hughes had produced sometime during the juncture was two thirds of the way full. Ed had told all but everything – with a trust in the other man's discretion that made Maes sick with confliction – and there had only been one rough spot during the entire, sordid event.

"Ed...where did you get the Stone?"

It had been during the fourth reviewing of the story, and showed as the single discrepancy. The young alchemist had been silent then, and suspicions played dark games in Hughes head, taunting and teasing that perhaps he _didn't_ know Edward as well as he'd thought. "…Fullmetal?"

"I made it."

"How?"

Ed had closed his eyes, and Maes let the still of the room speak for both of them.

Eventually, "You know about equivalent trade, about the things it takes, and…." He hesitated, scrunching his eyes even tighter. "…I made a sacrifice, okay? But I swear; it was only of me. No one else gave up _anything_." The last words came out with a vehemence that shocked him, and made having to speak what he did next all the more painful.

"As far as I can see, you seem intact as ever, Edward."

And whatever Ed had or had not done, Hughes could see that the last comment had hurt him. Deeply. Sincerely. Afterward, he could berate himself for relenting, but at the time he had let the issue go. Some hopes simply weren't worth breaking.

The rest of the incident progressed with a remarkable smoothness, and when it was finally done – the discomfited goodbyes said – the Lieutenant Colonel stood for a time before turning to depart. Hand on the doorknob, Ed's voice stopped him.

"…Hughes, do…you believe me?"

He told the truth.

"I want to, Edward."

Though it wasn't the reply Ed was looking for, it would to have to be enough, and the older Elric accepted that. He took a breath, and asked a favor he wasn't quite sure was within his rights.

"...Help Al. Please."

"…I'll try."

And then Maes left, shutting the door softly behind him.

.oOo.

When Ed next awoke, he was blind.

Or at least, that was his first thought, sitting up in a maw of hungry darkness, disoriented and suddenly, violently ill. His stomach heaved up its last meal and he rolled from the mess with a moan. Even farther away the stench clawed at him, a noxious, bitter odor that made his belly turn twice over again. He ached _everywhere_ and one of his arms, the right, had been strapped with a pole at a 90 degree angle from his body, making his personal brand of alchemy impossible. The other, however, was mercifully free and he brought it up swiftly to feel at his face. Finding eyes intact and his head lacking any of the characteristic injuries that might cause a loss of sight, Ed's breath hissed out a blessing.

Cold dirt was firm and dry under his bare toes and he tapped it softly as he thought. He had been moved – obviously – he supposed, and to judge by the way he was feeling, probably been drugged. He called out once, into the blackness, and the dusty echoes told him he was in a room much larger than the last one, walls far off to all sides. Another cellar perhaps, with no windows or light, underground and utterly forgotten. Reason caught up with Ed before he had a chance to take any firmer grasp at the panicky thought; if they – oh yes, that ever sinister and enigmatic _they_ – wanted him dead, there were certainly quicker and easier ways than starvation.

Standing up, Ed was swallowed by a wave of vertigo that almost had him back on the floor. It did, an instant later, when he tried to take a step and forgot that now _both_ his legs would be subject to such things as trembling, no longer cursed (blessed?) with iron's immunity. Getting to his feet the second time was even harder than the first attempt, robbed of its spontaneity, and crippled by an awareness of just how being on his feet would _feel_. Small surprise then; he fell once more. The third and fourth time as well. A sneaking voice of reason – undernourished and largely uncared for – suggested he crawl, and he squished it entirely. In the end, he made it on his sixth shot – all slow cautious steps – voicing a cry and heading for what sounded like the nearest of the walls.

When Ed finally reached his goal – outstretched fingertips meeting a rough expanse of mortared brick and stone – his shoulder was throbbing, legs felt like jelly, and eyes ached from staring out at nothing, but the nausea had calmed and his head was beginning to feel a bit more like it belonged on his shoulders again. There would be a way out of this – there was _always_ a way out – and he would find it.

That's what he did, after all.

Ed walked the length of the room twice before the heady exhaustion finally caught up with him, twining from his legs up to drag at his consciousness. The stone at his back was cool but not entirely uncomfortable when he slid down its surface, though the pole on his arm made a soft, scratching noise of protest. So. This place, whatever it was: four long walls of fitted stone, rectangular –two long sides almost double the length of their counterparts – and moderate in temperature; a wine cellar most likely. There had been a stairway at one end, and a door at its top, but the first was difficult to manage in the dark and the latter was metal, locked up tight. In any case, both were – for the moment, at least – useless. What he had found at the top of the stairs, however, was not; the loaf of bread, dried-out orange, gourd of water and wedge of hard cheese had dealt with the worries of his body, if not mind. What was left of the stash had been wrapped – clumsily and one handed – back up into the scarf where he'd found them, then tied to the pole on his arm. Stomach appeased, and curling up now in the place's northwest corner, Ed allowed himself to succumb to the temptation of sleep.

.oOo.

He shouldn't have been surprised when the nightmares roused him, sweating hard and pressed up between the walls intersection, but he was. He had had no dreams since the transmutation, and it didn't seem right that they begin again here, while he was alone in the dark. It wasn't as if Ed had never had such things – and indeed, experiences hundreds of times worse – but it seemed an unnecessary helping of torment on an already too-full platter. He should be used to it by now, he reflected; life seemed to enjoy its ability of going from bad to worse on him.

And there was the self-pity, oh _joy_, just in time. Ed's free hand snaked up and viciously tugged at his braid. If he was sinking that low after only an hour or so, where would he be in a week? Two? Hanging himself by his hair, in all likelihood, and what in the hell would Mustang say to that? …Dear **_god_**. And as a note to himself: _No matter what anyone says, dying does not make a person a paragon of virtue. Mustang can keep any and all pearls of wisdom he might or might not have possessed to himself. If those words ever cross my mind again in that particular order, remember that suicide is always the honorable option. _There. All better.

Nightmares slipping from him and mind calming in small increments, he let himself mull over – seriously now, deeply and sifting –the events which had got him to the current situation. Hughes questioning had helped organize the thoughts in his own head as much as anything else; allowed him to view them with a workman's detached precision as opposed to the muddled sentiment of a participant. It wasn't as if he had reached enlightenment, but all of a sudden the possibility was there, he had actual _leads_, and if not that, then idiosyncrasies.

Like the fire.

Ed was no expert in flame alchemy, and wasn't even particularly interested. It was a tricky, unstable substance, and he liked his particular vein of talent,_ thank-you-very-much_. He had studied it a little, of course, but only in the way that he made himself study everything. Given a spark, he could – with the right materials, planning, and research – make such a fire as the one that had blazed in that alley, but wounded and not even trying…? Ed knew he was good, knew just as well that he _couldn't_, and knew again that he _had_. So what in the world happened?

Statistically, he decided, the necessary spark could have been produced by the mere motion of snapping. If he had put enough force behind it, it was not impossible that the metal on metal of his right hand's automail against itself stuck the ember. The manipulation of that, however, was another matter and one on which his mind was drawing a blank. Give it time and…nothing. He was faced with the impossible, and there were no improbable choices to turn to. /_Think_/.

Ed was aware just how bad the idea was as soon as he had it. Was aware it would likely yield few results and aware that if it did, a good eighty seven percent of them would end with his eyebrows singed off. Was aware of all this and went ahead with it anyway, all the strength in his bound, automail fingers crushing together with a sharp, screeching sound that made him wince just _thinking_ of Winry.

He wasn't even surprised when it wasn't enough. Concentrated his will down his arm, into his hand, snapped–

_please_.

And all of a sudden he was two people as he had been three before; a flash of light, heat, and giddiness enfolding him in with cradling warmth that _didn't want to let go_. For a long moment, everything stood stark white and then his vision cleared and in the dying illumination of a floating flame Ed could swear he saw Roy, smirking at him – eyes unreadable – over a raised fist as his right hand relaxed back into its glove.

Then the fire flickered out and the world fell back into darkness.

.oOo.

A/N: Cookies to all who reviewed XD And two to Omakase, who managed to review TWICE. Love you babe. XD Glad I could help make things clearer for you and firedraygon97.

If anything else is confusing anyone, let me know and I'll do my best to clear it up. May take a break for chapter four and update in perhaps a month or so. Love you all. This time, it's little heart shape candies to all reviewers. XD


	4. In which there is Roy

**A/N**: Well, it's been far more than a week and I'm truly sorry about how long it's been to the update. Original stuff has been tempting me forth from my FMA hidey hole, and school has been eating my free time. I'm not going to say this WILL be a weekly update, but I am aiming for something like _monthly_ at least. I'm going to really thank AmunRa and Astarte Katz, because between getting me up to the nice, pretty round number which is 40 reviews and favorite-izing me on everything (you sweet person you) you really made my day. I've had this chapter about a week now, but haven't updated because I couldn't get my hands on either of my two darling beta's. I descended upon Sapphy today, and decided to post this with a single go over because…well. It's been long enough.

**Disclaimer**: FMA does not belong to me. If it did, "Flame vs. Fullmetal" would have a whole other meaning.

**Warnings**: Slash, slash, and more slash. Roy/Ed-ness and so forth. Though not in this chapter. If you don't like it, run away now and spare yourself the horror that will be. That said, onward!

**A Dedication: **To Shuki Ai, because she has been my lovely, faithful reader and she is most deserving. Luffles. And to Gabby, because she gave me a Roy keychain, and eps 9-24. Adore you both.

**Mortvi**** Non Mordant**

_By LCM_

It was almost cold and Ed couldn't breathe; the fire had burned away all the air around him and the smoldering absence of warmth on his skin prickled down to a bone-deep chill. He _hurt _as it crept pins and needles up his spine and into his fingertips, an unresisting drowning in dark silence. Then oxygen flooded back into the blackness and Ed was dizzy with it – a euphoria that had everything to do with the life that rushed into empty lungs and very little with anything else. Blind, he neither laughed nor cried, but instead reached out into the emptiness and screamed.

"Roy!" The word came out malformed and awkward – had he ever said it before? – angry, but far too relieved. He'd be teased for that. _Glad to see me, Fullmetal?__ I've heard pigs are flying and you've grown several inches. ...But it appears the last is still untrue. Pity./_/ Mustang would smirk. Ed could already feel it, a brush against his soul that came with a kind of dry, scrabbling sensation, like bugs over skin and not pleasant at all. A tingling rash on an uncomfortable sunburn that managed to be a hair's breath better than nothing.

Ed was just ready to wake up from this dream and go _home_.

"Roy? ...Mustang?" The second time he spoke it was louder, more brash and less desperate than the first; the Colonel wouldn't have recognized politeness if it came out and beat him. Just like that. "Mustang?"

...And the strangest thing of all was that it took several minutes for it to even occur to Ed to be worried.

He broke stuff, and the Colonel took the credit for getting it fixed. If he seemed there he would be, sarcasm and all, claiming success for something Hawkeye had probably figured out. It was only after no sarcastic comments shot from the darkness, no barbs on height or maturity were spat forth to needle him, that the thought actually niggled its way into being. That perhaps he was simply seeing shapes in the shadows, that no answer didn't necessarily mean mind games and hope can be an entirely different thing from madness.

"Roy," Ed hissed out the first name again instead of the last because - short and tempered - it rang out like a curse. "Roy, goddamnit, _Roy_! Answer me! You sick _fuck, _what kind of joke are you playing?" It had been less than a week; the prospect of seeing things seemed an inconceivable one, and the weave of insane possibility in the silence's response was more frightening than anything. "Answer me!"

Nothing spoke back, and he laughed, tension surging out then back into himself with the uneasy churning of breaking waves.

"...Haha, Mustang. Very funny. Great joke. Now look here you bastard–" Ed swore again because it felt unnatural on his tongue; he rarely used epithets around his brother, had never been separated from Al long enough to pick up the habit. Unnatural, though, was what he was feeling, so he swore and he spoke, empty air eating his words faster then he could say them.

No one ever answered, and when he finally realized there was no one to do so, his mouth kept moving anyway. Went on for hours.

There is never company quite as lonely as your own.

hr>

The wise say anger is for the weak, but that's a lie. Anger feeds on the strong, and anger ate up the last of Ed's reserves; a smooth drug that emptied his mind for a time and then wore off to leave something ravaged and markedly worse. He was quiet, near the end.

"Colonel...?" Ed didn't cry. He'd cried his share already, and the rest of the tears he was keeping for Al. Instead, there was a soft, questioning, wrathful frustration. "Look. I'm...sorry, ok?" The words flowed with a dull, acidic taste from his mouth, halting and slow, to the beat of a funeral procession. "For this...this whole thing. And...and those reports I turned in late last week. I'm sorry for calling you a bastard, and the time I spilled that pot of coffee across your desk. For once...twice...when I..." A list of sins. "And....and....I'm sorry, already. Just.... Let me wake up."

No one was listening.

Ed talked himself back to sleep.

hr>

The footsteps came before the light and he had just enough time to tense then relax again - lie perfectly still - before the door swung forward, nearly blinding him. A single gold eye snapped open from behind a tangle of blond bangs and lashes, and swiftly shut itself against the sting of the brightness. Slower the second time, Ed made out the silhouette of a man. Then a second. A third. Only three and Ed nearly smiled, because three was a number that - even now - he was confidant in taking. They weren't in military uniform, but when the first man spoke - almost in range and with the smooth drawl that comes from the confidence of knowing you are the best - Ed was almost positive they couldn't be anything else.

"He doesn't look like much, does he?" This as an aside to the other two just a few steps behind him, before turning his attention to Edward.

"You needn't pretend you're asleep; it's obvious that you're not. For the man that took out Mustang, you are a child in subtleties."

Ed didn't move, forcing his breathing as even as possible.

Amusement floated from the leader figure, and it shrugged. "Be that way if you wish, it fools no one."

He took a measured pace, just out of attack's reach.

"Fullmetal," He said, all icy cool, "do you know why you are here?" A pause, and when Ed failed to answer, "Your crimes against the late General factor in, yes, but your transgressions against society stands as an even greater sin. The creation of an unsanctioned Philosopher's Stone is a menace to the general populace. Your use of it has already caused the loss of one life, and if you fail to inform us of its location, there may very well be more." There was a threat in his tone, even as it became obvious in his words. "I have heard that you are a good brother, Fullmetal."

Frozen, Ed's jaw locked, stealing the words he might have given.

At last, the other man spoke. "Well. The military understands if you need a while to think it over. Remember your priorities. I shall see you soon."

The leader-figure gestured and the others followed in silence. As the first pair of feet reached the top of the stairs, Ed managed to open his mouth just in time to bite back the questions he had about Al - was he safe, was he ok, would the bastards leave him alone? - and ask instead,

"The...General?"

Smug satisfaction fell into his questioner's voice.

"Yes, a posthumous promotion."

The door closed. Someplace, somewhere, Ed figured, Mustang had to be happy.

That made one of them.

hr>

Ed wished he could have said that the next few days passed in a haze but they didn't. The mornings were cold and black and individual in their misery, failing to run together in the canvas wash of wretchedness that prisoners so often talk about. There was always food when he woke up, but no matter what hours he kept or how lightly he slept, he never saw anyone replenish it. He'd attempted fire alchemy several times after the initial success, shaken, but not enough to be long deterred. Each subsequent endeavor had ended in failure, and after the hundredth or so attempt he'd stopped putting any real effort into it. The door stayed fixed shut, and Ed took to counting the days with scribbled tallies on the hard dirt floor. He knew that the figures weren't accurate, but the rough little marks helped him feel in control of _something_. Time was an enemy that called visions of his brother to mind in cold sweats and screams of 'what if's' that left him numb and shaking. He was almost positive they'd put something in the water because it had a bitter, flat flavor that filled his sleep with pain and woke him with violent shivers. Unable to do without, he drank it anyway.

Ed got his color from the nightmares, and the leaving of them was almost worse than the having, going from the violent vividness of his subconscious back to the greedy black invention of his own too imaginative mind.

It could have been a week, it could have been more, when his dark-scarred eyes started seeing their dreams in oblivion.

Red was the first of the things that came to him in the dark. A vivid crimson that didn't really make sense, because there had been no blood in Mustang's death, and no blood yet on Al, but when he closed his eyes they gushed it. Bled out from fantasies into reality and lined his hands like paint or flowers. The people came next, and for a while Ed stopped drinking the water. The images had faded back to dusty vermilions, but he couldn't keep it up, and he ended up downing the slimy liquid despite misgivings. The hallucinations returned after that, almost generic at first: Al blamed him for his capture, his mother for her sickness, his father for his own desertion, Roy for his death, Winry for leaving her, Hawkeye for the Colonel, Hughes for taking his best friend and breaking his heart. It was a hell of sorts, and just as he began to expect it, it changed. Trisha was first, and she appeared crying.

The transition from surrealism back to reality was effortless, and he opened his blind eyes to her huddled form in the middle of the room. The mindless blame was gone when she looked up, young and beautiful, smiling through her tears.

"Come here, Edward," she said, and it was too sudden a change for him not to, a careful step forward that wanted to believe as it _didn't_. Life had never given him gifts like that. He hesitated in the last several inches from her, and she reached out a hand -soft and warm - to pull him down to her lap. Her hair had a bright burnish from a sun neither of them could see, but she felt like herself and if Ed hadn't been saving it he might have sobbed at the change. Instead, he simply sat stiff in her arms as she apologized and whispered soothing nonsense into his ear. He had almost drifted off, at peace with himself, when her nonsense changed and it registered.

"You took them from me," She murmured into his hair, "your brother, your father...you took them from me and you murdered them both. But I love you Ed. You have killed me, and still I love you." He pulled away from her, startled, and she smiled gently at him -perfectly- and asked, "Why?"

"I didn't!" He nearly couldn't say the words, and he realized then that he hadn't talked in days...perhaps a week. His count of time lay in some corner, forgotten and useless after his visions became little different from the physical world.

She merely stared at him in patient, wounded devotion, accepting his denial but hurting and loving anyway. For a moment, it made Ed wonder himself, doubting. If she looked that way...had he killed them? How could he have _not_? And he suddenly knew with a painful clarity that he wouldn't complain again; just give him back his lightless prison and take away _this_. He moved as far away from her as he could, ate a small hunk of bread, and waited in hope for the nightmares.

hr>

The new incarnations of his waking hours had the same flavor as his mother's visit, and each managed to maintain its own sense of unique cruelty. A silent Alphonse lent stoic comfort to reveal a tongue-less mouth and eyes full of forgiven accusations. Hughes offered escape in blinding brilliance, handing him his freedom before denying it with a closed door and even colder eyes. They were all new, individual slices of masterful torment, and when his mind was free to reflect, he had to compliment his own genius for knowing what he feared most.

Edward Elric needs no chains because he makes them all himself.

"You're up early." Ah, and Ed had almost forgotten the voice. For some blessed days Ed had _almost _forgotten the voice but now it was back and Ed wondered if that was the next torture in and of itself. Said so, even.

The Colonel - General - raised an eyebrow.

"And if it is?"

Ed gave him a long look before deciding to ignore the specter all together. He'd had his guilt trip over Mustang, filled the quotient and more; Ed had no spare sorrow. The man could quip he could banter, but unless he proved to be as good at the cancan as he was at his smirk Ed wasn't interested. Instead, he stretched, allowing routine to brush the apparition aside.

Not taking the snub seriously, it smirked. "Hardly torture, Fullmetal."

"Shut up." His response was flat, uncaring. He ate, did small exercises, counted his steps around the room. Mustang made a poor haunting; didn't suck him down like the others did, merely watching in disinterested amusement, giving comments Ed pretended not to hear.

When he was tired again, Ed found his way back to the corner he had made his unofficial bed. It was hard to relax with the fake General's eyes on him, but when he eventually slipped into unconsciousness, it was to a peaceful darkness devoid of dreams.

hr>

When Ed woke up and Roy was still there he was almost startled into words. The hallucinations had never had any consistency before and yet there Mustang stood, leaning up against a wall and looking as smug as a bored man can be. Ed ignored him again for the first couple hours. But he had had sleep - real sleep - for the first time in what felt like decades and his head was clear enough to wonder.

"Out of curiosity, Fullmetal, are you going to keep this up for the rest of your stay?"

For a moment, Ed didn't answer, and Mustang waited - smirking, superior. So close to the real Mustang that Ed almost fooled himself. Instead, he gritted his teeth and clamped his jaw tight shut, said nothing.

In the end, the day passed as the last but for a swift catnap, the middle of which was punctuated by a brief period of awareness as he watched Mustang pace. One, two, three; eyes drifting shut Ed drifted off once more. When he came to again the General was sitting a little ways down the wall from him, staring out into emptiness.

Ed got up and Mustang started talking.

"Alphonse is on the second floor."

Something pulled at his heart, almost opened his mouth, and with a stabbing incredulity Ed got the trick to the General's trial. Low, dirty, perhaps the worst one yet; information, hope.

"Little has happened yet. Hughes," And Ed congratulated his mind for the touch of emotion that it managed to install in the tone; one that he couldn't place as having heard from the Colonel - General - but managed to fit nonetheless. "Is keeping an eye on him. If things go well, they'll have to release him soon. Exempting accomplice charges, the military had no official reason to hold him." A touch of pride, almost lost amidst the usual smarminess. "Maes will see to that."

Ed's unbound fingers traced the wall as he walked in the blackness, humming a tune to himself. Almost exasperated - but most emphatically not - Mustang queried,

"What do you gain, Fullmetal, by feigning ignorance?"

Ed surprised himself by answering.

"Myself."

hr>

In the days that followed the Roy apparition failed to fade and Ed resigned himself to the fact. It was as bad as the actual man in most respects and seemed nearly worse in others - or perhaps absence had made memory more tolerable, and the figment was all it took to banish whatever reminiscent conjectures on the dead man's grandeur had grown up, like mushrooms, in the darkness. When the thing itself refused to leave he gave in to talking to it as well; in the long run -or so he decided - it merely amounted to speaking to himself. A _marginally _taller, smirking part of himself.

The thought of such a complex might have disturbed him under other circumstances, but at the moment, he had better things to worry about. He still had no answer to the question of the Stone, and Mustang's vague informing on the matter of Al had been discarded all but entirely. He had taken up marking time again - devoid of both sleeping and waking terrors in favor of the ever present General - and by his count a little more than three weeks had passed. The arm strapped to his pole was nearly a dead thing, limp and weak, itching with things he was glad he couldn't see. As a whole, both he and the cellar reeked. It had been a small embarrassment, additional insult, when no chamber pot had been included in his package of daily items. A corner of the room had been forced to serve instead, and he had a good enough sense of self that it mattered. A little, anyway.

Ed spent the majority of his day at the top of the stairs; ear pressed against it, listening to faraway sounds, feelings its edges for a fault. He was there when Mustang snuck up behind him, arms crossed, and delivered the message.

"They're coming tonight."

Ed didn't bother to look up. "They're not. They never come."

"You don't know everything, Edward."

He made a small harsh sound. Looking up, he tilted his head and twitched his lips wickedly. "And you know less than that. I made you up, you bastard, so be quiet and let me work."

Mustang composed expression nearly slipped, before collected calm swept his face and smoothed the corners of his smirk once more.

"And when they arrive, Fullmetal, and ask you their questions, what will you tell them?"

Ed hesitated, before remembering that it was only himself, and told the truth. Snapped it, out of habit, anyway.

"I don't know."

Never missing a beat, Mustang caught his duality. Of course he did. "Of the Stone or your answer?"

Ed didn't deign to reply, but his silence spoke volumes.

"I suggest you think, Fullmetal. If you're capable of it."

Ah, the wit. And Ed growled, dropping the conversation. Planned in silence.

hr>

Ed had not attempted alchemy since the nightmare of his mother, but now - anticipating the premonition of his own hallucinations - it seemed mad not to. Licking cracked lips, he gazed at the spot in the darkness where he could feel his hand to be. Shivered an odd tingle down his spine at the concept of being able to see Mustang and not himself. It was a disembodied sensation, and if he had been nervous before it made him bristle and snap.

"What are you looking at?"

"Wait." Mustang's eyes were slitted nearly closed and he had a look on his face of muted pleasure. He was leaned against a wall, just as elegant as you please, and as pristine and unruffled as if he had just walked into the office Monday morning. More so, even.

Ed's fingers snapped at that - angry and hard, in spite and on principle. Nothing happened and Mustang raised one eye to lazy half-mast, seeping a voiceless satisfaction.

Ed simply glared.

About to try again he halted, ears catching the distant sound of footsteps.

Mouth suddenly, inexplicably dry he glanced at Mustang, the other man abruptly fully alert and too professional for 'I told you so's." For now, at least. And he never would have asked him if he didn't already believe he was, "I'm going crazy, aren't I?" Voice almost light, tone almost joking, blunt and straightforward as he could make it.

For a moment, the look on Mustang's face was unreadable.

Then he smirked and gave Edward a fleeting, superior glance. "You're speaking to the dead, Fullmetal. What do you think?"

Ed managed a glower. "..Bastard." Not that he'd expected anything better.

The footfalls made rhythmic taps that slowed near a halt at the door.

Eyes shutting against the expected onslaught of light, Ed waited.

hr>

A/N: Heart shaped candies upon my fellow fangirls (bois?) XD Ah. Well. It HAS been awhile and I think the feel of this chapter is pretty different from the previous three. I find it rather crappy, and find some of Ed's bits OOC. He is a wee bit insane though, so I'm thinking that explains most of it, and he can't be utterly snarky to imaginary Mustangs all the time, can he? Shh don't answer that. I love you anyway. On another note, I am a fluffmonger at heart, and this (and perhaps chapter five) will probably be the last overloads of angst. I hope to be more physiological in the future.

**PlatonicTeddys**- When chapter three was written, I'd seen episodes 1, 3, 5, 9-14, and 17. Your review, by the way, made me sparkly inside.

Love you all. Again. Squared.

Hn. Plushies seem generic and lovable. Plushies to all my dear sweet reviewers.


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